


Follow Your Dreams Down

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Kissing, M/M, Projections, Romance, Seduction, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Watching, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cobb's projections start noticing Arthur, and it's not the kind of focus a guy can just ignore. Unfortunately, Cobb is determined not to talk about it, even after Arthur decides he doesn't exactly mind the attention.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Your Dreams Down

Working together in this business, a guy can end up spending a lot of time in his partner's head—most of it one-on-one. Not a single job kicks off without painstaking preparation, and not all of that preparation takes place at real world drafting tables.

Aside from the fact that it's more efficient to hold long planning meetings in-dream than out, there's only so far a dreamer can finalize his design with nothing more than sheets of paper and architectural models. Eventually you just have to get down _in_ it, see it with your own eyes—touch it, feel it and smell it—and decide if the dream is what you need.

Which means Arthur is quite comfortable spending time in Cobb's mind, and this far down the road, he's confident the sentiment is returned. They certainly spend enough time down here, crafting and scheming, laying the necessary groundwork for jobs that run the spectrum from cakewalk reconnaissance to difficult extractions.

They haven't tried inception again since Fischer.

Arthur can see a glint in Cobb's eye sometimes—the part of the man that's insatiable when it comes to testing limits and breaking rules and doing all those things he's not supposed to do. But Cobb never says anything, and he probably never will.

Arthur's pretty sure it's got more to do with the kids than anything. Now that he's made it home, Cobb is dead-set on never disappearing again. He won't risk visiting limbo a third time, which means steering clear of the dangerously heavy sedatives necessary for dreaming deep enough to accomplish inception. Besides, most people in the business still think it can't be done, which means there's not much by way of demand.

But the two of them still work together. They never intended to become thieves, but now that they're here there's no denying that they're the best. There's also no escaping the fact that maybe they both need the challenge. Designing architecture for the military could never be enough for them now. They've done too much to ever return to so small a sandbox.

So they work together. They keep up to the same old tricks, though they're careful to do it for clients less likely to hunt them down and kill them in their sleep when things go wrong.

They work for Saito quite often. The man pays well.

It feels like standing on solid ground for the first time in ages, and Arthur finds he likes it.

 

\- — - — - — -

They're working in Arthur's mind, tweaking the broad scenery of a layout Cobb has just finished teaching him. Cobb's subconscious surrounds them, paying more and more attention with each passing change.

"Blue, I think," says Cobb, and Arthur trails his fingers across the side of the building and watches as the dry paint shivers beneath his touch. Dark tan shifts to blue, and the changing color spreads along the side of the building like ripples moving over a lake.

The projections may be staring, may even be closing in a little, like curious children, but they're not converging yet. There's plenty more time on the clock, but Arthur isn't worried. He's dodged militarized enemy subconscious more times than he can count: he can handle Cobb. Besides, his friend and business partner is right beside him, armed and ready. If things get nasty, there's always the emergency escape hatch of a bullet to the temple.

When they get separated, Arthur still wouldn't describe himself as 'worried.' It's a stupid mistake—one that would never happen on the job in a subject's mind, with his guard up and his body on the defensive. But he's adjusting the height of a safety railing at the top of a steep hill—along a quiet road just outside of town—and he hasn't quite gotten it as tall as it needs to be when one of Cobb's projections passes so close, and so abruptly, that she knocks him over the edge.

He shields his face as he tumbles down the steep, grassy surface—tries to slow his fall and can't. A tree branch clips his shoulder on the way down, snagging in his shirtsleeve and drawing blood, but otherwise he reaches the bottom unscathed.

He stands and waves at Cobb, sees Cobb wave back and then gesture down the road the way they came. There's too much distance for their voices to carry, but Arthur gets the message. ' _Meet me back at the square_ ,' Cobb is saying. ' _We'll finish up before the timer runs down_.' Arthur waves again and flashes a thumbs-up, then moves along the ravine towards the nearby sprawl of buildings.

The hill slopes sharply upward as he moves, carrying him back towards town on a relatively smooth route that parallels the path of the road above. He can't see Cobb from here—either he's walking on the other side of the road or, more likely, his faster pace across level ground has already taken him back to town.

Arthur reaches the first building, and when he rounds the corner into the front yard he stops up short. There are a dozen projections standing there as if they were waiting for him. And no sign of Cobb. Arthur tries to circle around them the long way, but all it does is get them moving.

They approach with tentative steps at first, careful and curious, but with a growing purpose that lengthens their strides and speeds their steps.

Arthur backs away, even as his rational mind reminds him that this isn't as bad as it looks. They're just in the workshop. The worst that happens here is that the mob gets its hands on him, kills him, and he wakes up a few minutes ahead of schedule leaving the dream to collapse around Cobb. Which will serve him right if his subconscious tears Arthur apart anyway.

But the fact that he's not in any real danger doesn't mean Arthur is just going to stand around and wait to be torn to pieces. He hesitates for another second, and then turns and disappears between two buildings at a run.

He keeps running, through streets paved with fresh tar that picks up the sun's heat and glints black and dark beneath him. He ducks through short alleys, jumps over fences and takes shortcuts between lilac bushes. He zigs and zags across the small, friendly town until he glances behind him and no longer sees anyone following.

He finds himself dashing through a parking lot squished between two tall buildings—one a library, the other a fire department—and the shadows that stretch from the walls render his surroundings dim and secluded. He's still moving as he lets his eyes dart around him, gauging the space, and decides he should be safe enough here to wait for Cobb or the timer, whichever comes first.

But when he returns his eyes to the route before him, he realizes with a jolt that he's not alone. There's a man standing in his path, and it isn't Cobb. Arthur is already too close to stop and spin and run the other way. The best he can do is dig his heels in and prevent himself from running into the imposing figure.

The man is incredibly tall. Six and a half feet, if Arthur had to guess, and he wears a pleasant face, and an easy smile. He looks young, early twenties maybe, and beneath his t-shirt Arthur can see the contours of an intimidating array of muscles. His hair flops over his eyes in unkempt strands, and he cocks his head to the side as though considering very important questions.

Arthur backs away slowly, knowing he's screwed if this tall— _handsome_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully—Sasquatch of a man decides to take him down.

Then Sasquatch moves, fast and sharp, and Arthur curses and turns to run. He makes it all of two steps before he's caught by the suit coat—Arthur squirms his arms free and darts forward again, leaving the charcoal gray fabric in the projection's hands. Another two steps at a run, and then large, strong hands are closing around his arms and dragging Arthur to a shuddering stop. He tries to wrench free, but the hold is too solid. Sasquatch manhandles him like it's nothing, dragging Arthur's arms behind him and pinning them behind his back.

Arthur gives an experimental wriggle, but there's no room for escape. Worse, he realizes when the projection's other hand slides almost lazily around his front, Sasquatch is only holding his arms with one hand. His other arm soon becomes a heavy, restraining band across Arthur's chest. Christ, _one hand_ and Arthur still can't get his wrists free. This is not going to end well.

He doesn't know what he expects next. Maybe fingers to close around his throat and start choking him, or a knife to materialize from somewhere. He expects death, at any rate, or at minimum pain. That's what projections _do_ if they take the time to notice you at all.

But Sasquatch doesn't seem inclined to kill him. He seems pretty content, actually, plastered along Arthur's back and holding him still like it's nothing. His breath is distracting and warm along Arthur's ear and throat, and after a moment he actually chuckles softly.

That's when Arthur notices the second projection approaching them, and the first thing he thinks is ' _finally_.' It's not unheard of for projections to work in teams. Maybe now that projection number two is here, they'll hurry up and kill him so Arthur can wake up and leave this weirdness behind.

This new projection isn't as tall as Sasquatch, but he's still taller than Arthur. His eyes are shockingly green, his hair worn short and spiked. He's got muscles to spare, too, though maybe not the same overload of them as the body gripping Arthur from behind, and his face—Christ, that face is entirely too pretty to belong to a man. For a moment Arthur forgets his predicament and just blinks and stares, and then he remembers he's probably about to die and gives one last, futile twist against the hands holding him pinned.

But Pretty doesn't pull a knife, or break Arthur's neck, or draw a gun from the back of his pants.

Instead, he closes in with a teasing smirk on his face, grabs Arthur by the head to tilt his face up, and kisses him.

There's no lead-in to the kiss, no gradual buildup. Just empty air and then sudden, engulfing heat that sets Arthur's pulse stuttering in his chest. Pretty isn't gentle—his kiss is hard and deep, rough and demanding. He plasters himself right up against Arthur's front, a mirror image to the unyielding press of muscle pinning him from behind, and it suddenly hits Arthur like a fresh revelation that he's completely helpless. They've got him penned in, completely at their mercy with no apparent intent to kill him and send him topside, and Arthur's got no idea how much time is left on the clock.

He should be terrified. He should be calculating violence, trying to time a knee to the groin and a kick to the shin so he can buy himself enough space to escape. Instead his head is spinning, and his skin is starting to feel overheated, and the sensation of Pretty's tongue laying shameless claim to Arthur's mouth leaves Arthur's gut twisting in something a little too much like anticipation.

He can't let this go any farther, but he also can't get away to stop it.

When Pretty finally stops kissing him, Sasquatch emits a low, contented hum that reaches Arthur's ears and sends shivers through his limbs. He still can't get away, which is a _bad_ thing, but then Pretty touches his face with surprisingly gentle fingers. It's a tenderness that was absent from the kiss. His thumb plays teasingly across Arthur's lower lip, then presses harder, making Arthur open his mouth—like an invitation.

"We're gonna have you so hard you pass out, gorgeous," Pretty murmurs, the words ghosting across Arthur's face like a physical sensation. "Make you feel so good you forget how to breathe."

Which… sounds inviting as hell, actually, and Arthur blinks. Reminds himself that he's in _trouble_ here. He's not supposed to be getting ideas.

He hears his name from farther away, then, and the sound is wrong—desperate and panicked. It's Cobb, and when Arthur turns his head to find him, he sees a dark, unfamiliar expression twisting Cobb's features. He also sees the business end of Cobb's gun pointing right at him, hears the shot and then there's a bullet in his head and he's coming awake.

He blinks, and welcomes the wash of instant calm that always follows a step back into reality. He doesn't need to feel for his totem. They were only one level down, and he's quite familiar with what it feels like to wake this way.

Cobb doesn't come awake for another thirty seconds, and Arthur doesn't let him speak first.

"What the hell was that?" he asks. He knows Cobb must have seen enough to know what he's talking about.

"I don't know," Cobb answers, quick and automatic.

He stands, and flees, and just like that Arthur knows they're not talking about it.

 

\- — - — - — -

The next time they go under together, just the two of them, it's to explore the contours of a sprawling library Arthur has constructed.

They're not changing anything at this stage. Just exploring, testing the feel of it, getting a sense of what it's like to walk the layout. Cobb's projections seem inclined to ignore him this time, so Arthur has no trouble ignoring them right back.

He still keeps an eye out for Sasquatch and Pretty—he can't help it. But he doesn't see them.

He and Cobb eventually split up, at the employee stairs by the back door.

"I want to check out the basement stacks," says Arthur. He's built a sharp, angular maze down there. He wants to see what it looks like in the flickering light of dying fluorescents. "Why don't you check out the children's section and the roof? If we don't manage to meet back up again before the timer runs out on us, you can give me your suggestions after we wake up."

"Sounds good," says Cobb, and follows him through the door. Cobb disappears up the stairs, shoes thumping steadily on the cement steps and hand trailing up the red-painted railing.

Arthur watches him go, then turns the opposite direction, letting his feet carry him to the basement.

He gets lost in the stacks—though only figuratively. He probably couldn't get _physically_ lost down here even if he wanted to. He's too aware of the dream, too familiar with the layout. He can feel the walls around him, matter readily at his command if he were inclined to change anything.

But Arthur has always loved libraries, book-stuffed basements and neglected stacks especially. There's something claustrophobic and secret about spaces like this. Something private and old and protected. You could hide forever somewhere like this. You could bury yourself in information and research and dust—the anonymity of forgotten books. He finds it melancholy and comforting, all at once.

He manages to lose track of the time, mostly because it doesn't matter. He can afford to indulge once in awhile, especially in a moment like this, and he lets his feet carry him through the dusty maze of bookshelves, miles upon miles of deliberately crafted corridors. He's hidden a handful of paradoxes in here, but he doesn't trigger them now. There's no need.

When he reaches a dead end—one of the few he built into this design—he turns around and figures it's finally time to go.

He finds his way blocked, and swears under his breath when he realizes the figure in his way is definitely not Cobb.

Cobb's projections—the few Arthur has seen down here—have continued to ignore him, but this one is staring at him with something that looks a whole lot like heated intent.

The projection wears an attractive face—gruff and lined with experience, jaw scattered with stubble as though he forgot to shave this morning and possibly the morning before. His eyes are dark, chocolate-brown and half-lidded, and in this light his hair looks black, peppered with spots of gray. He's all of three inches taller than Arthur, a fact Arthur realizes only as the projection closes the space between them. The projection moves deliberately, intently, and the look in his eyes darkens to something fascinated and predatory.

He steps in too close, and Arthur backs up two steps and then can't go any farther. There's a wall behind him, shelves and books, and it blocks his retreat. Arthur briefly considers his options, and doesn't like the conclusions he comes to.

He could try to duck past the intruder and run the other way. There's even a small chance he'd make it. But the projection looks strong and quick, not to mention on his guard, and Arthur doesn't like the thought of what might happen if he fails. The last time Cobb's projections got their hands on him they didn't hurt him, but Arthur doesn't trust previous experience when it comes to someone else's subconscious.

He could mess with the dream space and make himself an escape route—a hole through the books that he could close right back up again behind him—but that might bring more projections to bear on his location. Better the single projection in front of him than the six he might find on the other side of this wall.

So he lets himself be cornered. His hand itches to go for a gun, but he didn't come down here armed. Cobb's the one constantly carrying, even in 'safe' dreams. They don't usually separate when doing things that will draw the attention of the subconscious, which means he's there to deliver the killing blow if necessary, but this time Arthur hasn't been changing things. It shouldn't have been an issue.

This particular projection isn't as burly as Sasquatch from before. Arthur thinks he might even stand a chance against him if things go poorly.

But the man approaches him without touching. Arthur still feels as though he's pinned against the wall—by the sharp, dark gaze if nothing else. But the projection keeps his hands to himself, doesn't grab him and incapacitate him the way Arthur more than half expects.

"I know what you need," the man says. His voice is deep gravel. Arthur suddenly feels like his skin is too tight.

"And what's that?" he asks.

The man finally reaches for Arthur, but it's just to trace a knuckle over Arthur's lower lip. Just a hint of touch that does nothing to clear up the swirl of confusion in Arthur's head.

"You need a firm hand," the projection says. "You need to be _owned_. Need someone to step up and tell you how it is and who you belong to." Which is ridiculous, of course. Arthur needs no such thing.

But his protest lodges and dies somewhere in his throat, and the moment stretches taut as he realizes the projection is still smirking at him all too knowingly.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Arthur swallows and realizes with a slick, sharp jolt that he can't.

He's saved from answering by the smooth, sudden shift in reality as the timer runs out and drags him out of the dream. Arthur flushes at the realization that he hadn't even noticed how close they were, and when he cuts his eyes to Cobb he finds his friend and partner watching him with concern.

There's enough worry in those eyes that Arthur figures Cobb must have been looking for him down there. He's clearly trying to figure out if something happened.

Arthur offers a small smile, understated but hopefully reassuring, and pulls the line from his arm.

 

\- — - — - — -

The trend continues unabated, and quickly becomes something Arthur can't just shrug off and pretend away. He comes to expect being accosted by projections as the norm when it's just the two of them, even while it continues to be something he and Cobb simply don't discuss.

It puts an unmistakable strain on their waking relationship. Cobb is there to witness as often as not, which means the pretended obliviousness between them is strained at best. There's an elephant in the room, and it's huge and neon and dancing in circles singing, ' _Look at me, look at me, look at me_.' Arthur honestly doesn't know how long they can continue pretending the problem away.

But for all that Cobb's subconscious seems to have developed a mind of its own when it comes to Arthur, it behaves just fine when they're on the job. No errant projections follow them in to subjects' minds, no unwelcome visions interfere with their in-dream objectives. It's only when they're alone that Cobb's far-too-interested projections come out to play.

It's only ever men that come after Arthur. Tall ones and not-so-tall ones, though always taller than him—broad shoulders and lean frames, some with glasses, some with freckles, blonde and brunette and salt-and-pepper-gray.

Once it's Pretty, from his first encounter, though when he strides up and kisses Arthur there's no accompanying Sasquatch in sight. It's almost disappointing. No, _confusing_ is what it is. Arthur's not disappointed. He's just vexed at the change in pattern.

Even more vexing is the time Cobb's projection of Arthur himself boxes him in—between two tall fences and a high brick wall. Arthur doesn't know why he expects something different, but he's only a little surprised when the projection shoves him against the rough brick and ducks down to bite a sharp trail of kisses along Arthur's throat.

"What the _fuck_?" Arthur gasps, because there's weird and then there's downright surreal. The projection is wearing almost the exact same suit as Arthur—a little darker maybe, pinstripes spaced a couple millimeters more widely—and when he draws back there's a knowing smirk on his face that does nothing but set Arthur's nerves on edge.

He's pretty sure he's never worn that particular expression before, and seeing it now on a face that isn't quite a mirror image of his own—god it's weird, the way the dark spots of freckle on his face look like they've flipped to the wrong side—is making him want to ask just what it is that this projected Arthur knows.

He doesn't have much time with the Arthur from Cobb's mind. The timer wakes him abruptly and leaves him blinking and weirded out. Once upon a time his reaction might have garnered a confused look from Cobb, but lately Cobb does his best not to look at Arthur when they wake up from a shared dream.

Easier to pretend things are normal that way. Or at least to not talk about it. Eye contact is a little too close to an invitation for discussion.

 

\- — - — - — -

Arthur finds it surprisingly easy to accept the fact that Cobb's projections keep cornering him. Kissing him. Touching him in ways that leave him dazed and uncomfortable, but not in the way he should be.

He can't even look at Cobb without flushing anymore. There's a breaking point here somewhere, and it has to be close.

The more times Cobb's subconscious corners him, the harder it becomes for Arthur to remember all the reasons he can't just let go and let it happen.

But the longer it goes on, the more haunted Cobb's eyes become on the rare occasions when Arthur actually catches him looking. There's guilt there. Dark and secretive, as though Cobb is still deluded enough to think that whatever's going on in his head _isn't_ on display for Arthur to see every time they dream together.

When Arthur runs into both Sasquatch and Pretty again, it feels like déjà vu.

He doesn't put up as much of a fight as he probably should. He runs, but they overtake him easily, and when Sasquatch grabs him from behind it feels like the natural continuation of the last time they were here. Well, not _here_ exactly. They're in a zen garden this time, tall trees and rounded shrubs in every direction as Pretty presses right up against Arthur's front, intimate and easy.

They surround him like bookends and murmur filthy things in his ear—things that they're going to do to him, things they're going to make him do. It makes Arthur's head buzz with ashamed anticipation, and his skin goes hot and flushed. Pretty does most of the talking. Sasquatch is busy kissing a heated trail along Arthur's throat, bestowing teasing bites just below his jaw, and the way they're both touching him is so intimate—so purposeful—that Arthur can't quite remember how to breathe.

It's not until one of them cups him through the finely pressed fabric of his pants that Arthur realizes they might actually go through with this. He's not sure how much time is left, but they haven't been down here long, and when Pretty's fingers find his zipper Arthur remembers with a rush that he can't let this happen. It hits him like a surge of adrenaline and he gives an experimental twist in Sasquatch's hold.

He's not surprised when there's no give.

"Wait," he gasps when Pretty tugs the zipper down. "Just. Wait a second." He's ambivalent, at best, about telling them to stop. He's not sure he wants to. He's even less sure he wants to know what it feels like to say ' _stop_ ' and have them keep going.

Then Cobb is there, sudden and out of nowhere, shoving Pretty aside and shooting him in the head. Sasquatch moves to protest but doesn't let go his hold, which means he's got no hands free to block when Cobb gives Arthur a quick look of warning and then punches the projection in the face. Cobb's hands are strong and harsh when they rip Arthur out of Sasquatch's arms, and he puts himself angrily, protectively in front of Arthur, gun raised and cocked.

He doesn't shoot the second projection yet, because Sasquatch doesn't look inclined to approach with the barrel of a gun aimed at his chest. But more projections find them, rounding the wall of hedges, drawn perhaps by the loud commotion and gunfire. They stand in a circle around Arthur and Cobb. Curious. Eager. Cobb shoots the ones that come too close, which keeps the rest of them on the periphery, watching with bright, wanting eyes.

Arthur senses just how ugly this could get, but he also knows there's no real danger. Cobb will shoot him before the mob gets close. He's just trying to buy enough time that they don't have to wake up that way.

Even through the heavy mess of this particular dream, it's an effort Arthur appreciates.

 

\- — - — - — -

When the timer finally runs down, Arthur blinks awake with a new certainty in his chest.

They can't keep playing dumb. Denial's not doing anything but making things worse, and not even the discomfort stiffening Cobb's shoulders is enough to make Arthur keep his mouth shut this time.

His own ambivalence aside, this situation is dangerous. They've been lucky so far, but they can't keep going into jobs this way. Too much could go wrong. The subconscious is tricky—delicate—and they can't keep walking into strangers' minds when they're compromised like this.

So when Cobb looks at him with worried eyes—and the fact that Cobb is actually _looking_ at him tells Arthur something is different this time—Arthur finally asks the question he's been choking on for three weeks.

"Why do your projections keep trying to fuck me?"

Cobb averts his eyes so fast Arthur feels it like a physical jolt. Then he hauls himself out of his chair without answering, and crosses the room—crosses to his rickety desk and pulls open the bottom drawer. He pulls out two glasses and the bottle of bourbon he keeps there for emergencies, and without offering one to Arthur pours himself two fingers of whiskey and downs it in a single swallow.

He pours himself a second glass and downs that one, too.

"Cobb," says Arthur. He stands and approaches cautiously, stopping a good four feet away. He wouldn't mind a drink himself, but he doesn't dare get close enough to pick up the glass.

Instead he repeats his question. "Why are your projections trying to fuck me?"

And apparently the liquid courage has done the trick.

This time Cobb answers, "Because _I_ want to fuck you." He doesn't look at Arthur as he says it. His shoulders are hunched, his voice wrecked, and he just leans there on the table like his world is falling apart.

He doesn't bother to explain or apologize, but he stubbornly refuses to turn around and look Arthur in the eye.

Arthur steps closer now, discretion be damned, and asks, "You couldn't have _said_ something?"

"No," says Cobb, finally looking over his shoulder and meeting Arthur's eyes. "I really couldn't."

And then, because he's obviously not thinking—if he _were_ thinking he'd keep his mouth shut, at least until he gets his own head screwed on straight—Arthur says, "Did it ever occur to you that I might be interested?"

But Cobb just laughs a dark, humorless laugh—a broken sound that makes Arthur's bones ache.

He watches helplessly as Cobb's shoulders slump with defeat, and then Cobb shakes his head and is quiet for a long time. Arthur hates the silence—he hates the unwelcome sense of disconnect surrounding them, distance where there should be fluid familiarity. They've been friends for years, partners for longer, and this aching, disjointed awkwardness between them is wrong in ways Arthur can't begin to decipher.

"You're not giving me a chance," he says, stepping closer to Cobb despite the wiser instincts warring in his brain.

"A chance to what?" Cobb asks, casting his eyes toward the far wall in an obvious attempt to avoid Arthur's questioning gaze. "Give up even more than you already have? Offer something you shouldn't have to, because you think it will make me happy?"

The broken timber of his voice is edged with guilt now, and Arthur suddenly understands. There are some things they never talk about—things that shouldn't be put into words—but Arthur knows he's got a dangerous lack of self-preservation when it comes to Dominic Cobb. Cobb knows it, too. The idea that Arthur might offer the man a sexual relationship for all the wrong reasons… he's smarter than that, _stronger_ than that, but he also hasn't ever said no to Cobb before—not and really meant it. He can see how his friend might have gotten the wrong impression.

"It's not like that," Arthur says. He can make Cobb see, make him give Arthur a chance to _think_ before simply rejecting him out of hand, if Cobb will just give him an opportunity to explain.

But Cobb shakes his head, still refusing to goddamn _look_ at Arthur, and finally says, "I've spent enough time taking you for granted. I'm not taking this, too." He puts the bourbon away and turns for the door, eyes locked stubbornly on the floor.

"Good night, Arthur," he says, and quietly leaves the room.

It takes every ounce of Arthur's willpower not to follow.

 

\- — - — - — -

Arthur knows the conversation is closed from the way Cobb shuts him out after that.

They don't dream together anymore. Cobb starts turning down jobs, saying he needs a break, time to simply spend with his kids, to live in his own head for awhile. Arthur recognizes his reasons for the thin pretexts they are.

Arthur lets him get away with the avoidance for a while. Long enough to work things through in his own head. Long enough that the echo of Cobb's voice in his memory has become a track set to repeat—a rough, rushed confession: ' _Because_ I _want to fuck you_.' Christ, it's enough to leave Arthur's head spinning.

He'd walk straight up to Cobb and say, ' _Okay. So fuck me already_ ,' if he thought it would do any good. He might even beg for it—he's pretty sure, from the flavor of his interactions with Cobb's projections, that his friend and partner would be more than a little into that.

Arthur would be on his knees in a heartbeat, begging or not, if he thought for a second that Cobb would take him up on the offer.

But the way Cobb ran from their last conversation, and the way he's held Arthur at arm's length ever since are all enough to make Arthur damn sure he won't get what he wants that way.

Cobb is too stuck in his martyr complex to believe Arthur actually wants this—or at the very least he's unwilling to take a chance and find out.

Which means Arthur will have to get more creative if he wants to successfully seduce his best friend. He'll have to find the right buttons to push, and the right way to push them.

He'll have to make Cobb see that Arthur knows exactly what he wants and isn't afraid to take it.

 

\- — - — - — -

He ponders for all of three days before deciding on a course of action.

Cobb is reluctant—and maybe even a little bit suspicious—when Arthur asks for help on a particularly difficult design he's been working on. The man is right to be suspicious, of course. Arthur doesn't need any help. But he needs to get Cobb back into that isolated dreamspace, and he needs Cobb's projections to come along for the ride.

So Arthur is persistent. Stubborn. He keeps right on asking until Cobb finally agrees, and then he opens the PASIV case before Cobb can consider backing out.

Once they're in the dream, Arthur ignores Cobb in favor of scanning the surrounding city square which is filled with meandering projections. He knows what he's looking for, though he's prepared to be flexible. There are any number of projections that will suit his purposes. Cobb has plenty to choose from. But there's something in particular that Arthur is looking for, and he feels a satisfied smile tug at his lips when he finds it.

Pretty and Sasquatch stand on a far corner of the street, and now that he's got them in sight Arthur wastes no time. He can feel Cobb standing confused behind him, then hears the cautious following of reluctant footsteps as he heads straight for the two projections.

Arthur moves with purposeful strides, and his pulse is a rushing racket beneath his skin.

When he reaches them, he wastes no time. He reaches for Pretty and drags him down into a kiss. He doesn't startle in the slightest when Sasquatch moves right in behind him, possessive and territorial, until he's an imposing line of heat along Arthur's back and a hot mouth along his throat. The two are bracketing him again, like a set of incredibly horny parentheses, and impatient anticipation sings in Arthur's blood.

He can feel the burning weight of Cobb's gaze as he lets the projections touch him—as he parts his legs so Pretty's thigh can slide between them, tilts his head back and parts his lips to invite Pretty's tongue deeper, then abruptly breaks the kiss and twists at an awkward angle to let Sasquatch have a taste.

Arthur built the dream surrounding them specifically for this purpose, which means the closest door is an unlocked apartment just waiting to be invaded—a tasteful space, full of small rooms and big beds—and somehow, between Pretty and Sasquatch manhandling and touching and kissing him, they manage to make it inside.

Arthur catches glimpses of Cobb along the way, dazed snapshots of the man following, an expression of wide-eyed disbelief contorting his face.

Now that they're here, Arthur doesn't bother being shy. He twists beneath the two sets of hands that start immediately stripping his clothes away. He's got too many layers on, a curse of the way he always dresses in dreams, but they disappear quickly enough beneath the projections' determined fingers. Seems like he barely has time to blink before they've got him naked on the bed, on his hands and knees

He can see Cobb in his peripheral vision, braced against the wall and positioned perfectly for the view as Pretty—still entirely clothed, just like Sasquatch—undoes his fly and pulls out his cock, then slides his fingers into Arthur's hair and puts Arthur to work.

Pretty is more forceful than Arthur expects, and Arthur chokes more than once as the firm length of cock slides too deeply, too suddenly. He catches on quickly enough—doesn't know how to deep throat in the real world, but this is a dream, and when Pretty thrusts deep again Arthur is ready and manages to swallow almost the full length of him. He has to forcibly suppress his gag reflex, even here, but there's something heady and erotic about the weight of Pretty's cock on his tongue, the way it fills his throat, the firm touch of his hand on the back of Arthur's head, urging him forward.

He's got his lips wrapped around nothing but the tip when Sasquatch moves behind him and slips a single, lube-slicked finger into him. Arthur's mouth falls instantly open on a gasp, and he doesn't even try to recapture Pretty's cock as Sasquatch introduces a second finger, twisting the digits in shallow thrusts to loosen him up.

Arthur gasps against Pretty's denim-clad thigh, and his fingers twist themselves up in the bed sheets. Pretty still has a hand cupped around the back of his head, firm and commanding, but he doesn't try to guide Arthur back to his cock. Which is fortunate—Arthur doubts he's coordinated enough at the moment to manage anything resembling a blowjob.

Sasquatch's fingers disappear almost too abruptly, and then there's something blunt and slick in their place, and it's Sasquatch's cock pressing into him, slow and inexorable, and dragging a whole stream of breathy, embarrassing noises from Arthur's throat. Apparently Sasquatch is big _everywhere_ , and when Arthur twists to get a look he can't believe the impressive girth he sees disappearing inside him.

It hurts a little—pain is in the mind after all—but this is still a dream, still _Arthur's_ dream, and an overwhelming surge of pleasure takes over quickly. He could get lost in the heady swirl of sensations, could almost forget what this is really about—could almost forget that Cobb is watching him from all of six feet away.

Pretty gets impatient once Sasquatch is fucking him in earnest, and the palm grasping the back of Arthur's skull tightens in a wordless command. Arthur can't quiet the shocky gasps escaping his throat with every deep thrust from behind him, but he cooperates as Pretty guides him back to the neglected cock in front of him. It curves, flushed and full and waiting, and Arthur parts his lips, groans around the firm flesh when Pretty fucks in instant and deep and hard.

Pretty is the first to come.

Arthur doesn't actually plan on swallowing, but Pretty's hand is an unyielding pressure, holding him still with almost half the length of Pretty's cock buried down his throat. He doesn't have a choice without putting up a fight, but as his throat fills with the wet evidence of orgasm and leaves him no choice but to swallow or choke, Arthur finds he doesn't particularly mind.

His mouth feels empty and raw when Pretty pulls out, but he doesn't have much time to focus on that before Sasquatch is dragging Arthur up against his firm, sculpted chest—making him spread his legs wider to straddle the muscled thighs, denim chafing against sensitive skin with every ragged thrust. He lifts Arthur like it's nothing, then drops him even deeper onto his cock, and Arthur feels full and fractured and overwhelmed. His breath comes in uneven gasps or not at all.

He opens his eyes when he feels Pretty's hands on him too, and a quick darting look confirms that the projection is hard again—or maybe _still_ hard—even with an orgasm all of thirty seconds behind him. They shift together, like a heated game of tug-o-war with Arthur at the center, and Arthur barely has time to register where this is going before Pretty's cock is working its way into him right beside the first, spreading him so full that Arthur throws his head back and feels his eyes fall closed, a jagged, stuttering moan escaping his throat.

Arthur's world constricts to the breathy cacophony of gasps rattling through him, the heated friction of bodies at his front and back, the wet trail of bites and kisses someone is leaving along his shoulder, and the impossible sensation of two cocks opening him up at once. He clings to the projection at his front, tries to ground himself with the feel of Pretty's broad shoulders beneath his hands, but he's too far gone. He's become unmoored, overloaded on heat and touch and sensation, and _fuck_ when did both projections get naked? Suddenly there's no denim or cotton or fabric slipping between them—nothing but skin and sweat and the sense of being filled so far he should be choking.

They take turns kissing him, tongues fucking into his mouth in time with the thrusts pounding into his body, and it's all too much. He almost loses himself—almost loses track of why he's here—but finally he breaks free from Pretty's mouth and opens his eyes.

He turns his head—just his head, economy of movement, Arthur doesn't have a lot of room to maneuver here—and finds Cobb watching him with a wide-open, breathless look on his face. Arthur's heart feels hot and tight in his chest, eager and hungry and racing, and he doesn't look away from Cobb's burning stare. He watches Cobb—watches Cobb watching _him_ , as Arthur is not just fucked but fucked double, as Arthur arches between the two bodies that hold him inescapably pinned.

The weight of Dom's eyes is even more intense than the physical sensations, and Arthur finally closes his eyes when he comes—gasping a low, guttural sound that might be Dom's name.

 

\- — - — - — -

The second they wake, Cobb is on him—dragging Arthur out of his chair so fast he barely has time to get the line out of his wrist. He pushes Arthur the five steps to the nearest wall and shoves him up against it. There's a wild, manic, desperate look on his face when he presses up close, body pinning every inch of Arthur to the wall, and it's impossible to miss the fact that he's hard.

He'd damn well _better_ be hard, after the show Arthur just gave him.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Cobb demands. His voice is husky and dark, and it's probably intended to intimidate but all it manages to do is send a thrill of eager anticipation along Arthur's nerves. Fucking _finally_.

"That was me letting your projections fuck me," Arthur answers. Simple. Direct. Impudent. The gruff, stubbled projection in the library wasn't wrong when he said Arthur needed to be owned. Maybe it took Arthur a while to figure it out for himself, but now that he's put it together he needs Cobb to get with the program.

Arthur can offer all he wants, but what he needs is for Cobb to _take_. Goading the man has always been the best way past his defenses, anyway, and from the way Cobb is staring at him now, Arthur thinks it might just be working.

"Why are you pushing me?" Cobb asks. His voice sounds carefully controlled this time, the rough edges sanded deliberately down until they're almost neutral. But Arthur can still see the fire snapping behind Cobb's eyes. He still has the hard line of Cobb's body, tension taut and ready to shatter, telling him what page they're on.

"Because I don't know how else to make you understand," Arthur answers honestly. The way Cobb's fingers clutch at his shirtfront leaves Arthur's collar too tight, but the discomfort is nothing to him—he barely feels it with so much heat and want and potential singing across his skin.

"Understand what?" Cobb presses.

"That I want this. All of it."

Cobb blinks at him, obviously still uncertain. Arthur takes the initiative and covers one of Cobb's hands with his own—gently pries it away from its smothering grip in Arthur's shirt and guides it down between them. There's zero space to work in, but Arthur manages, urging Cobb's hand further and further south until it covers Arthur's own straining erection. He can't possibly stay oblivious now, not with the evidence of Arthur's matching arousal hot and unmistakable beneath his palm.

"Jesus," Cobb breathes. But he still doesn't move.

"You want to fuck me," Arthur points out, not bothering to mask the rough, ragged edges of his voice.

"Yes," Cobb agrees breathily.

Arthur leans forward, comes so close to kissing Cobb that he can feel the man's breath ghosting across his lips. He waits an extra moment, letting the tension build, letting the air between them all but catch fire with how badly they're both burning for this, and finally delivers the killing blow.

"I want you to fuck me," he says. Then even closer, lips brushing against Cobb's, he whispers, "I'll beg if you want me to."

The dam bursts in a bright, violent instant, and Cobb's mouth is on him faster than Arthur can gasp in relief. He opens for the kiss instantly, for the claiming thrust of Cobb's tongue and the possessive hint of his teeth. Cobb guides him roughly, forcing Arthur's head back and shoving him harder against the wall.

Cobb's hand between them moves to cup Arthur roughly, pressing and rubbing him through his trousers, a maddening rush of friction that sets Arthur groaning, sets Arthur's hips bucking forward into the touch. He sucks on Cobb's tongue, clings to him with fingers that can't seem to focus enough to find a solid grip. His own hands are restless on Cobb's body, eager and trembling and incapable of finding a single place to rest.

It's only when Cobb releases his mouth that Arthur realizes how badly he needs to breathe, and he gasps a desperate breath as Cobb's mouth moves across his jaw—stubble scraping Arthur's cheek as he licks at the shell of his ear.

Cobb's palm on his dick is unrelenting, dragging him embarrassingly quickly to the edge of orgasm without even bothering to open Arthur's pants. The scrape of teeth along his throat isn't helping him hang on, nor is the occasional wet swipe of tongue soothing the bruising bites that Cobb is trailing along his throat.

Arthur comes on a sharp grunt, cursing as he spills sticky and hot right there in his briefs. Lucky he planned on this suit getting ruined. He's not even annoyed about it.

Cobb looks uncertain again after Arthur comes. His eyes still flash wide and dilated, and his erection still presses hot against Arthur's hip, but it's as though he doesn't quite believe they're here. As though it doesn't occur to him that he can actually have something he wants this badly.

Arthur decides to take pity on him, and gives Cobb a soft push. Not enough to send him stumbling back—hell, not even enough to dislodge him. Just enough to force a step or two of space between them, to offer a little breathing room.

Before Cobb can ask what's wrong—before he can misinterpret the distance or offer some kind of misplaced apology—Arthur drops to his knees.

Their gazes lock, hard and heated, and Arthur can't look away as he reaches for the buckle of Cobb's belt—or as he unbuttons Cobb's pants, pulls down the zipper, reaches inside. He sees Cobb's breath catch when Arthur's fingers brush against him, skin-to-skin at last, and then again when Arthur pulls him out into the cool office air and takes Cobb into his mouth.

It's messy as hell.

Maybe it's the sight of Arthur on his knees, or maybe the sensations are finally too much for him or, hell, maybe the fact that he's on his knees giving Cobb a blowjob finally drives Arthur's point home—but whatever the reason, Cobb finally, _finally_ gets with the program. He twists his fingers through Arthur's hair, making a disheveled mess out of the usually slicked-back style, and takes the kind of forceful control Arthur has been waiting for.

He's rough, makes Arthur take him as deep as he can—which isn't very, much as Arthur would've liked that particular skill to follow him into the real world—holds him pointedly in place for long moments before letting him rock back on his heels and then press forward again.

He's careful, too. Watchful with every thrust, obviously doesn't want to overstep his invitation even now, but he doesn't hesitate to make Arthur take it. He controls the pace, the depth, and when he comes he makes Arthur swallow.

This time, Arthur was planning on it anyway.

 

\- — - — - — -

Three days later, Cobb invites Arthur back to his hotel room and fucks him against the dresser.

Arthur is impatient, eager, but Cobb easily overpowers him—holds Arthur's wrists pinned behind his back with one hand, forces his hips still with the other—and takes things maddeningly slowly. By the time Cobb lets him come—already spilling his own orgasm into Arthur's body—Arthur is all but crawling out of his skin, panting for it and begging like he knew he'd eventually, inevitably do.

They make it to the bed after, and Cobb tangles around him possessively, one hand resting low and intimate on Arthur's stomach, thumb tracing meaningless patterns in his skin.

Cobb doesn't ask if this is okay, which tells Arthur he finally gets it. Arthur emits a contented hum, low and easy in his throat, and shifts even closer beneath Cobb's possessive weight.

"We're going to have to actually talk about this at some point," Cobb murmurs sleepily.

"Why?" Arthur asks.

"Because," says Cobb. "I can't just… keep assuming that you want all the same things I do. What if I push too far? What if I make you do something you're not comfortable with?"

"I'm a big boy, Dom," Arthur points out reasonably. "If that happens, I'll. I don't know. Kick you in the kneecap or something."

"You promise?"

" _No_ ," Arthur laughs, soft and breathy with the sleep he'd rather be having than this conversation. "But I _do_ promise I'll tell you if you ever push too far. Christ, how many different ways do I have to find to convince you I trust you?"

"Maybe a couple more," Cobb murmurs, making the words sound filthy and full of promise.

"I'll get right on that," Arthur says, stifling a yawn. "Starting tomorrow."

 

\- — - fin - — -


End file.
